


On a Knife Edge

by FoundlingMother



Series: Alternate MCU [1]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Thor (Movies)
Genre: Blood and Injury, Don’t copy to another site, Gap Filler, Gen, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Injury Recovery, Thor: The Dark World, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-23
Updated: 2019-11-23
Packaged: 2021-02-25 20:49:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21535165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FoundlingMother/pseuds/FoundlingMother
Summary: Since Jotunheim, Loki lives and dies teetering on a knifes edge. His first moments awake after Kurse's blade brings him beyond the brink of death are no different.
Series: Alternate MCU [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1006632
Comments: 4
Kudos: 32





	On a Knife Edge

**Author's Note:**

> This story originally written and posted as part of my [Whumptober 2018 Ficlets](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16023731?view_full_work=true). It was [Day 1: Stabbed](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16023731/chapters/37396514). I have decided to separate some of the ficlets into their own, independent stories, either because I am proud of them, or because I intend to one day expand the universe they exist within.

The first sharp breath Loki inhales burns through his parched throat and forces his lungs to inflate against the invisible weight compressing his chest. He tries to slow the next breath, but it too lances through him. Over and over he gasps. The pressure—the aching tightness—never dissipates.

His limbs are stiff and weak. Uncontrollable shivers pass through him.

His mind works at a sluggish pace, trudging through the pain and the shock towards…

He should be dead.

Because Frigga—his mother—is dead. Because he assisted the enemy that slew her. Because Thor promised a cell, which, without Frigga, was a promise of madness. Loki’s mind would twist every memory, turn on itself in a brutal assault until it fractured beyond repair. Deserved, perhaps, but not desired. Not when he clung to new and hard-won sanity.

This feels familiar. To welcome death, only to have that relief snatched from him.

A gust of wind cools damp tear tracks on his cheeks.

Loki attempts to curl in on himself. Agony seizes him, yanking him flat.

Shallow breaths are all he can manage against the chest pain.

Kurse impaled Loki on the blade protruding from his chest.

Loki’s fingers twitch, skating over his tough leather armor, colliding with raised, rutted flesh.

He strains upright. Sits panting until he catches his breath.

Dull throbbing ebbs and flows beneath his breast. Torturous waves of sensation, threatening to submerge Loki.

He tips his chin forward.

Running down the center of Loki’s torso, a rigid, greyscale scar.

Examining the discoloration and spread of the blemish, theories begin to form. Theories about his impossible survival. It’s a morbid curiosity.

It strikes him that there’s no clear divide between armor and scar tissue.

Loki prepares to swallow. Gags.

Nauseous. Dizzy. Fragile, hysteria encroaching.

The material of his armor has fused with the grotesque scar.

And it cannot remain so.

Loki closes his eyes, shutting out the world, focusing on breathing, though the tension of the wound denies him true respite.

Flimsy calm fashions support beams around Loki’s psyche.

He summons a knife. The familiar sensation of seiðr dances over the palm of his hand.

He holds it level with his breast, fingers clenched painfully around the grip. Steady, or something near it.

Loki slices the knife across the leather in a jagged oval. Listens to it sink into pitch-black gravel. He sheds pieces of his ruined armor, grateful to feel it peel away from his back—the exit wound—without complication. Only the material fused with scar tissue remains marring his torso.

Jaw set, he retrieves the knife.

He shaves off strips of the mutilated skin, picking at scraps of solid, smooth black with the tip of the knife until they begin to peel. Blackened-blood oozes forth, clots disturbed. Grey-yellow puss seeps out of blisters. The fluids mix, flowing in tracks down Loki’s bare stomach, pooling at his navel.

Hyperventilating. Vision murky at the edges. Fingers sticky.

He does not take proper care in cutting away the last of the fused armor. The knife stabs too deep, leaving a fresh laceration in its wake.

He drops it once more. Presses a filthy hand to the bleeding gash.

Breathes in. And out.

Loki collapses against the surface of the desolate realm, emotions overtaxed to the point of numbness.

Time passes. Second. Minutes. Hours. Days. He knows not.

_What now?_

Heavy footfalls alert Loki to the approaching Einherjar. The man pauses, no doubt studying Loki for signs of life.

“On your feet, prisoner. The Allfather demands you return to Asgard and face judgment for your treason.”

Loki chuckles, mirthless.

His fingers close once more around the knife.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm just still super proud of this one.
> 
> [Tumblr](https://foundlingmother.tumblr.com/) | [Dreamwidth](https://foundlingmother.dreamwidth.org/)


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